She shifts a little and turns her attention to me. “Beyond that,” she says, “I don’t have a theory. Unless the winsome widow decides to give me one.”

I return her gaze, but not her smile. “And why would she decide to do that?”

Geraldine stands again, turns her back to the judge, and takes a few small steps toward my chair. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because I’d ask nicely. I’d even say pretty please.”

She pauses, apparently expecting a reaction to her stab at humor. I don’t give her one.

“Or maybe because she knows the cause of death was drowning, not head trauma.”

Now I see where she’s going with this. One look at Judge Long tells me he does too.

“Or maybe because as things stand at the moment,” Geraldine continues, “your Mrs. Rawlings is looking at life. Her only transportation out of Framingham is a pine box.”

MCI Framingham takes maximum security to a new high—or a new low, if you happen to live there. It’s the Commonwealth’s warehouse for the worst of its female violent offenders. Faced with a choice between Framingham and a pine box, Louisa Rawlings might just opt for the latter. She might climb in and close the lid herself.

“What are you offering?” I ask.

Geraldine smiles the way she does when she knows I’m sweating. “Not a damned thing,” she says. “At least not at the moment.” She moves back to her perch on the corner of the judge’s desk and crosses her legs. “Find out if your client is interested,” she adds. “And then we’ll talk.”

I hold one hand up to Geraldine, then rest my forehead in it, looking down at my lap. I need a few seconds to think. Something is wrong with this discussion. Technically, it doesn’t work. And Geraldine Schilling is nothing if not technically accurate. She never proffers a deal that isn’t. Never.

Louisa Rawlings can’t finger a third party, even if she’s willing, without damning herself in the process. To provide specifics—and Geraldine won’t barter with any defendant for generalities—Louisa will have to admit enough to cement her own conviction as well. As an accessory, at best. More likely as a co-conspirator.

Geraldine is still smiling at me when I look up from my lap. She knows what I’m thinking, but she sure as hell isn’t going to say it for me. “She’ll need immunity,” I tell her.

She nods, her eyes asking what in God’s name took me so long. “Qualified,” she says.

No surprise there. Qualified immunity is the best any prosecutor would offer under these circumstances, even one less rabid than Geraldine. Absolute immunity is almost unheard of. And at the moment, Louisa is lucky to be offered anything. She’s not exactly sitting in the catbird seat.

“She pleads to aggravated assault with intent regardless,” Geraldine adds. “And she does time, Martha, real time. But if she fingers the muscle in the operation, we can probably get her out before she needs a nursing home.”

Judge Long clears his throat. He’s got a packed courtroom waiting, he’s reminding us. There are other cases on his list.

“Give us until noon,” I urge him again.

He looks at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. And it might turn out to be the old hurry-up-and-wait routine. I’ve got a full docket this morning. But we’re going to get this thing on track—one way or the other—before we break for lunch.”

With that, Judge Long buzzes Wanda and tells her to send in the court reporter. Seconds later, Old String Tie joins us, a stenographer whose moniker stems from his self-imposed work uniform. He’s labored here, in the Superior Courthouse, for about a century. I’ve never seen him crack a smile.

String Tie perches on the end of an empty chair and purses his lips at the armrests. He’s annoyed. Court reporters sit on stools; chairs with armrests inhibit their elbows. Nonetheless, he sets up his narrow machine between his scrawny legs without complaint. He looks up at the judge, waiting.

Judge Long reads the docket number and case name from the paperwork on his desk, then dictates a short memo reflecting his decision to recess for the morning. The delay is necessary, he opines, so defense counsel can consult with her client regarding newly disclosed evidence. String Tie dutifully taps it all into his machine, then looks up at the judge again, fingers poised to continue. “That’s it,” Judge Long tells him. “That’s all for now.”

String Tie nods, packs up as silently and efficiently as he set up, and then leaves us without a word.

I stand to leave too.

“Attorney Nickerson,” the judge says, and I turn back to face him. He looks up at Geraldine, who’s still perched on the edge of his desk. She’s looking at me, smug.

Judge Long turns his attention back to me and lays a hand on the pile of documents in front of him. “Officially we’ve adjourned so you and your client can discuss the newest lab report.”

I nod.

“And you should do that,” he continues. “But, like it or not, I’m going to offer a word of advice here.”

A word of advice from Leon Long is fine with me. He’s probably the most fair-minded human being I know. And what’s the worst that could happen? Geraldine might think he’s in her camp, might think she has a leg up on us? I muster a small smile to encourage him to continue.

Once again, he glances at Geraldine and then back at me. “Regarding the Commonwealth’s proposal,” he says, “be sure to discuss that, too. Explain it to your client. Tell her to think about it. Tell her to think long and hard.”

CHAPTER 22

The Kydd and Louisa were leaning forward over the defense table when I emerged from chambers, their heads bent low, almost touching. They were engrossed in discussion, oblivious to the chaos in the room behind them. I realized as I approached the table, though, that they were actually immersed in a monologue. The Kydd was doing all the talking, Louisa not uttering a word. She sat stone-still at first. But when I got closer, she began shaking her ponytailed head, over and over.

She looked up at me when I joined them, dark brown eyes brimming, and the unbridled alarm on her face told me two things at once. The Kydd had already explained the significance of Herb’s blood in the Queen’s Spa. And Louisa had no idea how it could’ve gotten there. That was more than two hours ago. She still doesn’t.

We’re in lockup, in a windowless space the county passes off as a meeting room. It’s about the size of a broom closet and it reeks of disinfectant. Louisa sits upright, posture perfect, at a small stainless steel table, the kind you might find laden with detergent in an industrial laundry. The Kydd slouches in his chair across from her. I’m between them, facing a cracked concrete wall painted government-issue green, and I’m just about talked out.

Louisa’s mantra has been constant since we got here. She couldn’t cut a deal with Geraldine even if she wanted to. And, for the record, she does not. She can’t finger a muscleman because she doesn’t know such a person. She had nothing to do with the attack on Herb. And she knows of no one who would want him dead.

It’s ten past eleven; our time is evaporating. I want to review the evidence with Louisa once more, and I’ll have to do it quickly. Every once in a while it’s possible to look back on a case and see the precise juncture in the road where it took an irreversible turn toward disaster. I’m afraid we’re at that intersection now. I’m afraid Louisa will look back in a year’s time and wish she’d cooperated with the Commonwealth, wish she’d ransomed her golden years. I’m afraid I’ll look back too, and wonder why I wasn’t able to convince her.

My old wooden chair creaks and the sound seems exaggerated in the stillness of the compact room. I press my hands into the armrests and stretch, ready to delve into my “save your own skin if you can” speech again, but Louisa beats me to the punch. She stands and paces the short distance to the far wall, staring at the concrete floor. “I have a question,” she says, not looking at us. “And I want an honest answer.”